Three Patch Problem
by ObookNorth
Summary: Sherlock is aware of feelings he has for John Watson, but isn't sure how to express them.  Rated M for an emotionally confused Sherlock, smexy times and power play.
1. Three Patch Problem

**Three Patch Problem**

Another case was solved, proving once again that the world always underestimated my brilliance. Even my most rapid fire deductions could sometimes get quite dull, especially considering how few people stood by my side to nod and acknowledge that I actually have something of import to say. Of course my techniques are a little unorthodox, but it is relentlessly irritating that the cockroaches skittering around Scotland Yard look at me as though I eat small children for supper every night when nine times out of ten I manage to save them.

Of course John doesn't, he bounces on the balls of his feet and says brilliant as he does every time in his ratty thrift store sweater. He has settled in for the night now; I click through his blog quietly as I hear his clothes hit the floor and the springs on his mattress depressing. An edit here and there. Sherlock Holmes is NOT an idiot. Delete the bit about not knowing who Sandra Bollocks… oh, Bullock… is. Who pays attention to ridiculous nonsense like movie stars, really? I'm not a bloody talk show host.

After fiddling with the blog (I'm sure he'll either blow up at me or thank me later) I close my eyes. The case was a bit of a strain, all that getting shot at. Fun, but I'm a little weary. About five minutes is what I need… I start to doze off in my chair as the silence of the flat anesthetizes my brain temporarily like a reset button. Five minutes, and my eyes flick open again. Now I'm starting to get bored. My mind needs work! It needs a case! But it's highly unlikely that Lestrade is going to call me again tonight with something to keep my mind occupied.

I check on an experiment in the freezer. No progress. It stares back at me. The corner of my mouth flicks up slightly. I rotate it 180 degrees. There's a chance that the electricity is on the fritz a bit, and while it would be amusing even Mrs. Hudson's temper might be frayed if a workman saw a head in the freezer. I stack a tub of ice cream and some ground chicken in front of it.

My stomach is starting to tie itself in knots, and it's not from the experiment in the freezer. I ignore the sensation, even though I know that eventually I'm going to act on my somewhat perverse instincts. A book that John insists is halfway decent is on the coffee table. I skim the back cover. Fool author. Turn on the telly. I am entertained for half an hour by a poorly filmed unsolved mystery. Consider calling the police precinct in New York telling them I've solved it, and they're all fools, but distracted by a slow exhale of breath from John's room that indicates that he's settled into deep REM.

I know where to step on each step so it doesn't make a sound. John's room is fresh and clean compared to mine, A pile of dirty laundry in a corner, a stack of medical journals on the nightstand, and John himself burrowed under the covers. I settle down in a chair in the corner and watch him. Somewhere deep in that primitive brain John understands that he should adore me. He is so attracted to the heady danger that follows me like a shadow that he is conscious of it, and has rationalized it with god knows what superstition. He probably likes to think he's a hero and I'm an avenging angel or some nonsense. I see it in his eyes whenever he looks at me. That resolve to guard me with such steadfast loyalty is almost palpable.

Steepling my fingers I smile to myself. He wants me physically. I knew it since our first dinner together at the diner, him asking me so many absurd questions about being attached. He is so confused though, he is not sure what part of the attraction is for the danger and what part is for me. I have seen him as I have walked towards him when he is being held at gunpoint. He stared over some perpetrator's shoulder at me with that quiet army resolve. He understands my abilities and my limitations. He knows that I can walk as silently as a cat behind another person, and apply the pressure necessary to break the gunman's arm within seconds, but he knows I can't always predict when the trigger will be squeezed. Nonetheless, I saw him flick his tongue across his lips, almost in anticipation right before I grabbed the gunman's arm. He laughed, not in relief but in real humor as he staggered, clutching my jacket as the perpetrator fell screaming to the ground, looking at us, but particularly at him, as if he was some kind of monster. I'm sure John thought that gaze was meant for me.

While he was laughing at that adrenaline rush, I was half tempted to pull the gun up to his temple and order him to kiss me. In that state, with that buzz in his brain he would have, still laughing. I could imagine bending over him, his mouth slightly rough against mine. I could imaging clutching his shoulders, pulling him closer and feeling his lust and worship for me in his arms, still shaking from adrenaline and amusement.

The next day he would leave, however. Dr. John Watson, always aware of propriety and societal constraints. I would push you to your brink, and you would love it, but when you looked over the edge and saw exactly what you wanted it would terrify you.

"Sherlock?" I glance up quickly.

"What is it John?"

"This is the fourth time you've sat in my room like this. Your breathing wakes me up. It's a little disconcerting."

I am momentarily surprised that my light breathing could wake him. But I think of his army training and his experience in Afganistan and it makes sense. "Humor me. It helps me think."

"I thought we already solved the case."

"I'm thinking about something else."

There is a brief silence. "I mean, I don't mind really. I mean…" John yawned. "You could kill me but you don't."

There was something Mummy used to say about love being expressed differently by different people. Mycroft would probably remember it better than I. "That's the same way I think about you John. You could kill me, or at least run away screaming. But you don't."

I considered going over to the bed, taking off my suit, and pressing up against his body, hot with blanket warmth. A few times before I had tried with other people; for research and experiments, sometimes for cases; sometimes with men, sometimes with women. Their bodies were always hot and sticky, mine cool and dry. I never could do more than lie there, watching the ridiculous display of human emotion and exertion play across their faces. Once in the middle of it I said to a woman "Really, is this fun for you?" as she attempted something described as "reverse cowboy". Apparently that wasn't the appropriate response. In this moment, I realize, I would try again for John.

"John…" I hesitate, unsure how to continue. "…I need a case."

"Don't be daft! We just...finished…"

There is a brief pause accompanied the creak of the springs as he sat up in bed. I realize that I am still looking down at my hands and John Watson's eyes have had plenty of time to adjust to the dark. Looking down could indicate depression, or heaven forbid, embarrassment. I look up briskly. There was a rustle as John got out of bed and padded over to the chair. A warm hand rested on my shoulder. I look up into his slightly craggy face which is not-boring but in a familiar sort of way. "You should go to bed Sherlock."

Our eyes connected. I looked at him calmly until he flinched and looked down, removing his hand. Conversational dominance regained. Good. "John, I know what kinds of situations you love to be in. And adrenaline is the only emotional response I can't remove from my hard-drive for any length of time."

His face spasmed in something that looked like a fearful grin. "Okay creepy flatmate, off to bed. I can bear you going on and on about your expansive hard-drive and mind-palace in the sitting room, but we're not doing this while I'm trying to fall asleep. Out!"

The door clicked shut behind me. The corner of my mouth twitches upwards. Perhaps I have, at least temporarily found a solution to my boredom. This could possibly become a three patch problem.


	2. Tea and Toast

**JOHN WATSON**

Sometimes I think Sherlock overestimates how much I enjoy violence. What Mycroft said to me in the parking garage was true, I was missing the war. Sitting in the little pensioner's room with nothing but a computer to occupy me and a gun to look at was driving me completely batty. My life was missing excitement. I was, in a word, bored.

I suppose in a way, that's why I put up with Sherlock's bored phases when he is literally climbing the walls and hacking up body parts in the kitchen. I don't necessarily sympathize with the fact that minutes after he solves one case he's yearning after another, but I understand the crazed, almost vicious restlessness. I might conceal it better, but then I'm just a man, not a brain on legs.

The jumpers help hide it some as well. Nothing like the element of surprise garnered from looking like a dowdy old dad who would be more likely to have his kid's pictures in his pocket than a browning.

But while I love the mad running and fighting, what draws me the most to this life is the man himself. I often consider how ridiculous his soft curls are when he is ranting through the flat, looking for a case or in the middle of some obscene experiment involving human noses. His deductions are completely amazing, and hold me a captive audience. I have tried to reproduce his accuracy myself on numerous occasions, and have concluded that while half of Holmes' deductions are the result of years upon years of careful human analysis, the other half are some form of instinctive scenting. He is a bloodhound of a human being. Those soft curls cover a brain that is completely glorious and inhuman.

I give him too much credit. Sherlock is dangerous. But god, is he beautiful; beautiful like a raging tornado. However, it often occurs to me that I am lucky to be in the relative eye of said storm.

Last night, though, those queer blue, almost clear eyes turned grey with the low light looked up at me, and made a bizarre comment on how he understands adrenaline better than any other human emotion. He was looking at me as though I was some minor lord and he was a king. Yes Sherlock, perhaps I understand you better than anyone you have ever met before. But that does not mean I completely understand your twisted sense of power and control. I certainly cannot dissect the intricacies of adrenaline for you. Just because you almost literally rule my life doesn't mean that we both understand our experiences the same way.

And it certainly isn't cause for you to sit in my room staring at me like a bloody Twilight vampire.

Wincing at the comparison, and at the memory of the date to the cinema that involved that completely horrible movie, I walk casually into the kitchen, fully rested after eight hours of sleep. Since a case was solved last night, I am prepared to find my flat-mate either curled up in a ball on the sofa, finally asleep after being awake for three days straight, or perhaps (shockingly) absent from the sitting room entirely and in the bedroom that I am convinced he almost never uses.

When I see him sitting in his chair, completely starkers, I let out a rush of irritated breath through my nostrils, take off my dressing gown (am wearing a t-shirt and sweat-pants underneath, thank you very much), and throw it at his lap.

His lips quirk up minutely. "Sharing dressing gowns? Now people will definitely talk".

"Look, we may be flat-mates, but that doesn't mean that we have to share EVERYTHING with each other." I say, gesturing with irritation at his crotch.

"You're blushing", he murmured, "And are running your hands through your hair."

"Of course I'm blushing! I don't want to just walk in here and see you naked! The sheet was bad enough."

He quirks an eyebrow, almost sassy, and I sigh and give up, turning to the kettle. Miraculously no body parts interrupt my tea and toast making, though I am glad there is no reason to go in the freezer. I had seen that addition to our flat two nights ago.

"Is Barry still in the freezer?" Occasionally giving his experiments names has proved to be an effective coping mechanism.

"Mmm. Coming along nicely."

"So did you sleep last night at all? You've been awake for three days straight. You WILL collapse one day if you keep this up."

"Something else came up. An experiment. And that's what I have a doctor for."

"I am your flat-mate, Sherlock. Not your personal medical assistant." There really should be a way to throw tea at someone without it scalding them. The only other kitchen accessory within reach is a cleaver, and I do take some portions of my Hippocratic oath seriously.

I settle for plunking his tea and toast down next to him with firm disapproval, which is certainly not effective, judging by the smarmy look on his bloody face. After the fact I realize that if I had wanted to make a point, I should have let him get his own damn tea and toast.

Punching the Union Jack pillow I sit in the chair opposite him out of habit, and immediately realize that my eyes have absolutely no where to go but to his long, pale, body. My dressing gown covers up the embarrassing bits, but he has not moved a muscle since I've come into the room to put it on. After a few minutes of chewing toast while looking over his shoulder I resort to the newspaper.

"You can't make eye contact with me. You made eye contact with The Woman just fine."

I press my lips together, and throw the newspaper down. Very pointedly I stare straight into his eyes, which I note with gradually growing fury are twinkling. Since when did the eyes of Sherlock bloody Holmes TWINKLE? "What IS this new experiment Sherlock? It doesn't have anything to do with you watching the way I react to you when you're naked, does it? Are you training to be a male version of Miss Adler for the next case?"

"Coming from you, Dr. Watson, I'll take that as a compliment."

The next ten minutes are perhaps the most awkward of my life, as I endeavor to chew and swallow my somewhat dry toast and drink my tea without undue haste, while Sherlock Holmes keeps attempting to make eye contact with me. The newspaper is next to my foot, but I'm not willing to admit my discomfort by bending over to pick it up.

God that man is infuriatingly beautiful.


	3. Love or Hopefully Obsession

Note: Sherlock is not mine! Thanks for all the replies everyone!

**SHERLOCK HOLMES**:

Affection. A simple word, and one that means very little to me. For example, I can feel affection for a puppy, for Mummy, for Mrs. Hudson, and possibly a small sliver of something for Mycroft. Even a sociopath can feel affection if he is self-aware enough of the fact that people do things for him and are concerned with his lively-hood.

Love is a ridiculous word. Sentiment. People claim they are in love, and then kill, murder, lie, and steal for it. Love is really no more than self-justified obsession covered up and locked away in a pretty sounding box.

Need. More accurate, if I were to be trying to describe my feelings for John. Not quite. I need you. No. No. It can never be need. Need would make me weak. If I need you, I can't protect you, John Watson. No, I will never let myself need you.

I toss on the couch. John is at work, and I am dozing. Despite my banter this morning, I am exhausted. Really, I don't battle sleep the way John thinks. My brain just doesn't shut off sometimes.

Obsession. I return to the word I used to describe love. Perhaps obsession is what I mean, it sounds more self-aware and complete. John Watson, I am obsessed with you. If you want to be sentimental about it, I suppose you could tell other people I love you, but that would be difficult for you because I would never say it. I would never be sentimental. I would never wine or dine you (well, not outside of Angelo's and normalcy), I would never buy you something ridiculous like flowers or chocolates.

My chin scrunches into my neck. Sentiment. Pah.

But I would watch you. I would watch you, possibly without blinking for days on end until I knew what you needed and wanted before you mentioned it. I already know some of it. I know that when you' have nightmares the night before you wear jumpers because you need comfort, and if you don't you wear collared shirts and a jacket. I know that your hair is approximately 16 different shades of blond and grey and that the grey makes you nervous because you stare at yourself in the mirror for two minutes longer than strictly necessary in the morning and leave the bathroom muttering about looking like an old dishrag (which you don't). I know that your nightmares are normally about you killing and not you being shot at. When you kill men, you feel as if you have violated your oath as a doctor, but when you're shot at the adrenaline steadies you, makes you feel determined and defensive of your allies. I suppose at some point I might need to start saying things, such as "don't worry about looking old, looks and age are perhaps the most irreverent detail imaginable", or "Thank you for killing that man for me, would you like me to sleep next to you tonight to remind you of the one you saved in the process?" I am hoping, however that we will be able to skip that step. Perhaps one day we'll be so in sync that we won't even need to say anything to each other, and a simple look will convey all the gratitude and affection necessary for our mutual obsession.

Knowing someone so well you don't need to speak to them. Oh bliss. Speaking is usually so… dull.

I hear the faint noise of rain blurring the edges of the other sounds in the flat, in the street outside, and eventually, as I try to separate the noises of each separate raindrops, it blurs the edges of the noises and the thoughts of my relentless mind.

My eyes finally narrow and close.

When I wake up, John is sitting in his chair, obviously relaxed. I don't turn to look at him; I can hear that it is him by his breathing. I know enough about his breathing to determine what time it is (near midnight, his breathing usually becomes deeper near midnight as he attempts to battle sleep), what sort of day he's had (it shakes, not with fear but with uncertainty, so perhaps his day has been a little bit nerve-wracking, possibly because he's been busy re-evaluating his sexuality) and what he's doing, though that's assisted by other noises (finally reading his paper, dozing off over it as can be determined from frequent rustles and intermittent almost-snores which end in him catching his breath with a start). I don't move, and keep breathing low and deep.

John is getting older, which doesn't do much to accentuate his aggressive nature. He has bags under his eyes, his dating has become near desperate, his hair is feathered with grey. The women he dates think he's "adorable" except for Sarah, of course, who was dragged into our mad world of crime solving and puzzles. It has to do with the cardigans and the lip licking and the naïve sort of smile he wears like a badge that says "I am nice, trust me, tell me anything".

I don't trust John Watson. Not because I think he's going to turn on me; he's loyal. I don't trust him because I'm not a bloody fool. No one who's seen that man hold a gun like it was an extension of his arm would fully trust him. No one who's seen him occasionally check for it, like a phantom limb, and see the momentary panic in his eyes when he sees it's not there would fully trust him.

It is good that trust is not necessary to form an obsession.

I sigh softly, and press the full length of my body up against the back of the sofa. I'm not asexual mind, Mycroft is always making that mistake. Nor am I particularly fussy, really, men, women, fat, thin, who cares. It's more an irritation. Not the sex itself but the people who come with it, moaning and shaking and carrying on like they're morons. So many people try too hard to impress in bed. I suppose in a way this is what I am about to do, attempt to impress John Watson with my sexuality. Perhaps the results of my efforts will be a little foolish, but the data gathered from his reaction will be worth it.

I let my head loll, giving the impression that I am still fast asleep. Then I sigh again, a little louder, and moan lightly and carefully, feeling my hot breath bounce off the back of the sofa and invade my nostrils.

"Sherlock?"

I indulge in smiling quietly to myself before John inevitably stands up and walks over. I toss my head a little, feigning…

"Are you okay? Are you having a nightmare?" I make a point of not reacting to the warm hand on my shoulder.

This is beautiful. I start to twitch my hips against the sofa cushions, lightly and irregularly. A wet dream shouldn't be too difficult to mimic.

"Sherlock?"

His voice is edgier now. Slightly irritated. Interesting. Possessive? Would John be jealous of a sofa cushion?

"Oh God Sherlock…" I had been hoping to hear him say that but in a different tone of voice. That was a "damn my irritating, wanking mad flat mate" voice, not a "damn, look at that sexy man" voice.

Hmm. Still uncomfortable with his sexuality? This was getting a little awkward, but I suppose I'll have to see it through until the end... at least he thinks I'm asleep. I rut a little more. Maintaining the illusion of doing this unconscious while still managing to come was going to be difficult, especially if he stays irritated and keeps glaring at me…

"Look, Sherlock, I know you're awake."

… Oh. I could continue in an attempt to prove him wrong, but I'm curious.

Abruptly I flip over. "Really John? How?"

"Because I've seen you have a wet dream before, you daft git. You don't make nearly that much noise. You really ought to either start masturbating more or sleep in your room. Now stop using me as some kind of experiment and get up and play the violin or something for God's sake."

John sits back down in his chair, and picks up the newspaper again. I flush slightly, but brush it off in a second. "You must watch me sleep closely then," I say, softly, "because I was sure only to moan enough to attract your attention and only move my hips enough so you knew what I was doing. In fact, if I had called any less attention to myself, I'm sure you wouldn't have noticed it unless you were sitting right beside me, watching me sleep."

In all honesty, I'm not entirely sure how accurate that is. John was able to drag himself out of a deep slumber last night because of my light breathing. But his physical response is telling. John blushes at my accusation, and his cheeks hold the color for longer than mine did as he stares blankly at business section of the newspaper. I snatch it away from him, and our eyes meet. I smile a pointedly fake smile. I know John sees through it, normally he is hardly able to deduce his way out of a tea bag, but he's becoming quite an expert at deducing me.

After throwing the newspaper back in his face, I make a note to stare at his eyes more carefully later, especially in this turbulent state, half irritated, with me, half loving me.

Something in my chest clutches slightly. Love… or hopefully obsession.

I am not in any mood to disobey John. As he suggested, I pull out my violin, kick off papers and books and an old tea cup on the coffee table and play something cheerful as he chuckles with exasperation and calls me a nutter.

And really, I am, because in retrospect and in regards to John Watson, it occurs to me that I really have no idea what I'm doing.


	4. Instructions for Proper Care

**JOHN WATSON**

I suppose if anyone could find a way to make faking a wet dream in front of your flatmate less awkward it would be Sherlock, who seems to view the human body with complete clinical detachment. However, after the initial violin playing on the coffee table until 2 in the morning which seemed almost cheerful and rollicking in its defiance of social norms (at least, I assume that's what he's going for), he dropped the bow and began to stare out the window, his brows knitted together.

"You know Sherlock, I really don't mind. I know better than to take your experiments seriously."

"I'm not EMBARASSED, John," he snapped in response.

I sighed. I should have known better than to assume that. He's just entering one of his moods. He probably realizes that this irritating spate of sexual experiments is over. "All right you barmy…" My voice trailed off as he glared at me, and I stood up. "I'm going to bed. Please don't come into my room to watch me sleep again."

"Why would I?"

I assume the reason why it sounds as though he actually wants an answer to that question is because it's late, and I'm exhausted. I shrug and practically stagger to the stairs. I hear him put away his violin, and then hear the clink of test tubes and the freezer door opening as I fall into bed. I suppose I'll have to clear away bits of Barry before I make tea tomorrow morning. Thank God tomorrow will be a Saturday.

OoOoOoOo

Technically, Sherlock isn't fair when he accuses me of watching him sleep. The television is at a strange angle and can only really be seen from the couch or his chair (which I find ridiculously uncomfortable), so when he finally sleeps after a case or after trying to keep himself occupied during a bored marathon for a week by starting and not quite finishing numerous experiments, he usually curls up in a fetal position at one end of the couch and sleeps for 12 hours. Nor does Sherlock Holmes bow to normal human conventions such as "day" and "night"; when I find him asleep it's just as likely to be midday as it is to be midnight.

After the first few times of seeing him miraculously asleep and creeping around the flat on tiptoes, I realize that when Sherlock sleeps he sleeps like a log. He can be pushed around and repositioned, there can be loud music blaring or the telly on and he won't even roll over or change the frequency of his breathing. So, tip-toing around the flat was right out, and I began to watch telly and read the newspaper at the other end of the sofa as I normally would.

It is surprising, but not unpleasantly so, when I realize that Sherlock seems to gravitate towards body heat while he's sleeping like a bloody cat. Usually it's just his feet that end up scrunched into my side, but occasionally he ends up draped across my lap. I used to stand up with a start once his head or legs began encroaching into lap territory, but eventually I became irritated with him for interrupting my movie, and rather than fight the inevitable I'd only move when the movie finished or when he started waking up.

The example I discussed with him last night occurred when his head ended up on my lap one day during a fairly enjoyable re-viewing of The Godfather. I took it in my stride, as usual, perhaps even petting the back of his neck a little.

I was drifting off a bit myself (love movies, but can't stay awake during them), when I noticed that his breathing had become a little ragged. At first, as a doctor, I was worried, until I saw him straining his legs and hips a little. My eyes grew wide as he gave a breathy whimper and he bit down on my jumper.

Oh god. I rolled my eyes. It's probably telling of how used to him slinging himself over me as he slept that I didn't think to move until there was a wet spot spreading across his crotch and his jaws relaxed enough for me to pull my jumper free.

I wasn't entirely sure what to make of my own erection as I took it in hand in my bedroom, especially since the best fantasy I could muster was Sherlock moaning, much louder than he did in the living room as he bit down on my shoulder, rather than my jumper.

A week later, after a case and the usual amount of sleep and food deprivation, I was sitting on the couch yet again, watching a fairly bad rental and feeling disproportionately proud of the fact that I had managed to get the world's only consulting detective to eat a plate of Chinese by placing it on the table next to him and engaging him in conversation about blood splatter patterns. At first he had just poked at the food absently with his fork, but as the conversation progressed, I was amused to note that his arm began using the fork like a shovel, pushing food into his mouth as if the arm knew that this was possibley the only sustenance it was going to get for the rest of the week.

I decided that if Sherlock Holmes was a pet, he would have the following care instructions:

**Food**: May eat once a day if you're lucky. If you're not, he will refuse to eat for days on end. For successful feeding, make sure that he is distracted and not actually aware that he is putting food in his mouth. Make sure a pot of tea or coffee is always accessible for intermittent consumption and hydration.

**Exercise**: Give his mind at least one case per week. If cases are not available, commit a crime yourself. It beats having your bloody head bitten off.

**Plumage change**: After a case will shed his extra-ordinarily expensive suit and too tight shirt for the irritatingly poncey combination of silk pajamas and robe. During this transformation, do not touch, approach, or startle. See above description of having head bitten off.

**Training**: Unlikely, but can be attempted. Excessive praise can result in a bond between this creature and his keeper. If the bond is strong enough, his pride and massive intellect may occasionally give way to your common sense. If it isn't, see above descriptions about head being bitten off.

OoOoOoOoOo

The next week I am fairly useless on the case. The body is present, in a ditch by an overpass, but decomposition is so far along that my skills as a doctor are useless and quite frankly the stench makes me feel a bit ill. Sherlock is muttering something about an experiment he did three years ago on the rate of decomposition of different body parts, and I am feeling supremely relieved that I was not around for that stage in his research.

"Okay Sherlock, you've been here for 15 minutes, you need to pull together what you have and tell me what you've got." Lestrade's arms are crossed, Donovan is hovering over him with evidence bags.

"Oh, it I can give you the name and address of the murderer. He confessed on my "Science of Deduction" website about a month ago. I just didn't have a decomposing body accessible to test a theory of mine, so I let this one sit for a month. The murderer is quite harmless, I've been watching him. He won't kill again, and has become depressed instead of planning on leaving the country. It was premeditated though, so I'm sure his sentence will be severe."

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Oh. God. No.

The explosion that comes from Lestrade would rival that of an ordinance weapon, and the one that comes from Sally is only slightly less. Anderson is just standing there, like a kid at Christmas, enjoying watching what could possibly be the destruction of Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock is practically vibrating with excitement; he hasn't had a case for over two weeks and I can imagine that right now being charged with harboring a murderer and resisting arrest are starting to sound infinitely more exciting than being stuck for yet another day on the sofa, staring with glazed eyes at the ceiling.

Right then.

I stalk over to the scene unfolding around the unfortunate body. "Sherlock."

God, the man is grinning. Probably light headed; I couldn't remember the last time I saw him eat. His skin is dry too, that man really needs to drink something other than tea and coffee. Stupid,stupid, stupid to let him out of the flat like this.

It looks ridiculous, I know. I'm half a foot shorter than he is. Really, the man could wrap his coat around me and I'd practically disappear from view. I shake that idea out of my head, and fist a handful of his shirt, and draw myself up as tall as I can manage. He is startled enough and close enough to the brink of starvation that I meet with little resistance as I back him into the brick wall behind him.

"Sherlock. A bit. Not. Good." His eyes widen slightly, then narrow.

"John?"

I know I'm usually seen as a useless, slightly adorable accessory, perhaps some cross between a good luck charm and a sounding board. But suddenly, I see why Sherlock so badly needs an assistant. Damn him, why did he have to make me into his blasted KEEPER? Sherlock's sociopath behavior may be high functioning, but it still needs a significant check occasionally, and I'm the only person close enough to the man to recognize what it is and supply it. And this is serious. I'm not clear on the laws, but I'm sure that withholding evidence for a month and failing to tell the police about a murder could turn into a decent amount of jail time, no matter how illuminating the experiment is.

There is a crack as I slap him across those stupid cheekbones. I ignore the snort from Anderson. "You. Right now, you are going to apologize to Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan. Be humble. Give them the murder's address."

I walk back over to Lestrade. "Sir, it is my medical opinion that Mr. Holmes has been malnourished and sleep deprived for the better part of the month, and shouldn't be held responsible for his actions." It's an extremely tenuous line of reasoning, so I add, "Plus I should remind you of the triple homicide he solved for you last month."

"Good to see who wears the pants in the relationship," Anderson comments snidely.

A moment later Lestrade deftly catches a beautiful punch that probably would have broken Anderson's nose with a very satisfying crunch and is trying to turn it into a handshake. "Thank you doctor. If your instructions are followed to the LETTER, we won't press charges."

There is a pause as everyone turns to look at Sherlock, who is staring at me and touching the red mark on his cheek with bemusement, and almost a certain amount of satisfaction. I'm honestly a little surprised. Part of me was expecting him to run while I was distracting everyone.

"I apologize, detective inspector. I have been a little… distracted recently. Here's the suspect's information. If you need any further assistance you know where to find me." He hands the DI a small notebook containing what looks like thorough information as to the suspects whereabouts, and turns to walk towards the main road to find a cab.

Lestrade is gazing between the two of us with his mouth hanging slightly open, a fairly satisfied look on his face. Donovan turns away, rolling her eyes. Sherlock turns on his heel and stalks towards the main road in search of a taxi.

Before I follow, Lestrade grabs my arm. "John…" He scratches the back of his head uneasily.

"Sherlock is not going to jail." (Will not be taken from me.) I glare at the DI; I can look quite formidable if I want to. (If you're going to accuse me of abuse… was that abuse?) I shake my head. "I… no, I'm just here to protect him from himself." (And possibly the rest of the world).

"Oh, right then." There's a certain amount of relief on Lestrade's face. He puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes slightly. "In that case, keep at it John."

"Come along John." I look over my shoulder, Sherlock is waiting expectantly.

"Right." I pull away, and follow the Enigma as he promptly pretends that our previous exchange never happened.

When we get back to Baker Street, however, he eats the chicken soup I give him, drinks a large glass of water, and sleeps for twelve hours straight.


	5. Unloaded Gun

(Nngh, these boys are having issues with getting their mutual sexual attraction together enough to actually do something about it! I also apologize for some of the bouncing around between scenes and present and past tenses, and hope that my characterizations are enough to make up for it. Once I finish this I'll try and go back and edit this out a bit. And for the record, Sherlock still does not belong to me.)

SHERLOCK:

John sucked in a breath and narrowed his eyes as he stared into the mirror. I could tell that he could feel the itch of the gun in the holster beneath his jacket. Behind him, on the wall was a yellow slash of spray paint, perfect for practice. I saw him sight it, pretending to see it out of the corner of his eyes. He sucked in a breath, whipped around with perfect control, and aimed the browning right in the center of the mark. Yes, he would have hit. Good.

*click*. Empty gun.

Quietly I slid from behind the door to the easy chair by the door of his room.

"5 seconds. I don't think you can get much faster than that considering the state of your shoulder. Though your peripheral vision could use some work."

John whipped around to the easy chair next the door of his room. I sat there with a self-satisfied smirk, tight purple shirt, and a seductive, vaguely coy look on my face. I knew John would pull the trigger, it was automatic, and he was a soldier. What I didn't take into account was the blank, purposeful look on John's face, the look that could change his dark blue eyes almost black. Usually when I saw that face, he was aiming over my shoulder. Now he was aiming directly at me.

But the change from calm determination to horror to loss to relief is devastating as he sees who I am, and realizes that he can't stop as he pulls the trigger.

*click*

You didn't think I'd sneak up on you while your gun was loaded, did you John? John?

Look at us John, two ridiculous monsters, playing this game of life and death. You can hit me, I don't mind, I rather liked it when you did that the other day. Wouldn't that be fun? John?

You aren't supposed to look at me like that. John?

The look on his face is so terrified and stricken that I look down at my chest, half certain that perhaps he DID shoot me, and I just hadn't heard the bang or felt the pain yet. But my shirt was clean and smooth, my chest unbroken. "John, don't look at me like that. I knew your gun wasn't loaded."

He's on his knees, with his arms around my legs. His hands are shaking. "You idiot, I was practicing to protect you." As he talks, his mouth moves against my knees. It feels like kisses. It feels like worship. I had been amused by the thought of him worshiping me, but I didn't expect the weight of responsibility he conveyed by leaning into me. Part of me wants to pull away abruptly and walk out of the room, but I am truly obsessed.

Instead I lean forward and bury my hands in his hair. It feels just a little coarser than dandelion fluff, and the skin at the nape of his neck is soft. I slide my hand between his cheek and my leg, cupping his face, and he turns into it, breathing in and pressing his tight lips against it. It's not quite a kiss, but it's the closest we've ever been.

"I deduce things, John. I heard you pulling out your gun to practice in the other room. You checked to see if it was loaded, and I heard you empty the gun, but not reload it. I know you keep your bullets in the lock box since I gave the wall a pounding, and I didn't hear you open it. Plus I watched you pull the trigger once before I came in the room. I knew you'd turn when you heard me and pull the trigger on me, but I didn't know that doing so would hurt you. John, I'd never let you kill me."

I feel his lips quirk against my hand. "I'd never let you kill me, either." He muttered. His voice sounded tired, but relieved.

We sit like that for at least an hour, until even I lose track of time. I can feel his pulse through his temples; feel his system purge the adrenaline. It's nice in a way I didn't expect, feeling him sag into my lap. I press my hands against his shoulders; but he can't get any closer to me. I feel his breath shudder against my thighs. His breath is warm, and I am aroused, but I do not move. I begin to wonder how he is processing me being this close until I start to feel him twitch awkwardly.

"I'm still not gay," he mutters, lifting his head. I notice with amusement that he is turning his face away from my half-hard cock but is still glancing at it and running his tongue between his lips.

John is dreadful at lying.


	6. Always Now

(Note: Sadlly Sherlock and John Watson are not mine. But they may belong to each other. Warning for John Watson's god-awful dirty mind)

**JOHN WATSON**

"Mycroft's coming over today then?"

It is a Sunday morning, and the Enigma is sitting in his chair, casually plucking his violin. He looks down at it, partially concealing a smile at my probably simplistic deduction. "What makes you say that, John?"

"You're dressed, but you're not on a case, which means you're either anticipating your brother or Lestrade. If it was Lestrade you'd be pacing around in excitement, but you're not, you're sitting down and fiddling with your violin. You're also…" I hesitated, not sure how to describe it.

"Yes?"

I sit down across from him and clear my throat, aware of the absurdity of the comment I am about to make. "…dressed… prettily… with your hair… "

He smirks. "Dressed aristocratically. I only put 'product' in my hair when I'm expecting to see Mycroft because otherwise he will describe me to Mummy as "wild". But thank you for the compliment, John."

"It's not a compliment. I don't like it. Much prefer…" I stop; what I had meant as a biting comeback is about to evolve into something sickeningly sweet. God, this is awkward.

He plucks the strings on his violin pointedly at my hesitation. "Yes…"

I look up. His light blue eyes are glowing almost silver, which is somewhat formidable when combined with his "aristocratic" persona. It makes my breath hitch, I lose my presence of mind for a moment and widen my eyes in surprise as the words come stumbling out: "… I quite like it when you're ranting about the flat in your stupid dressing gown. It's infuriating, but when you do that the air around you vibrates and I can almost feel how clever you are."

(Plus you look like a dear thing with your soft curls and I just want to shove you down on your knees and slide into that ripe angry mouth while you glare up at me with your eyes like turbulent ice and give you something to be "bored" about… Oh, what am I thinking…)

"Sentiment, John." He says it disdainfully, but he's smirking again. I feel the heat rise in my face as I momentarily wonder if he is capable enough at deducing to be referring to my brief fantasy. The blush only deepens as I realize that that particular metal image is not sentimental in the slightest and I drop my eyes down to my knees.

He continues mildly as if he has not seen the blush or deduced its meaning, "and your deductions are getting better. I have hope for you yet, though you should branch out. Being able to deduce consulting detectives is not a fruitful occupation, seeing as there is only one."

I raise my eyebrows, though I persist in avoiding his gaze and pick up a medical journal. Mrs. Hudson is baking something downstairs, possibly chocolate biscuits going by the aroma. I focus fervently on thoughts of baked goods to quell something stirring in my pants. "It is useful when that one is your mad wanker of a flat mate."

Years. I can see it in my head like a parade, this delicate, almost but not quite love of ours, weaving in and out of each other, him advancing in some bizarre, manic fashion, myself stepping back, perhaps a moment of weakness on my part (One day I will probably kiss him after a particularly brilliant deduction, and it will be awkward and intimate, but I will refuse to speak of it again). Vaguely I wonder if I ever will have the nerve to admit to him that my loyalty; my intense, warrior-like desire to protect him stems from more than just admiration of his deductions or a vague belief that his work would always end in truth and justice. The man is brilliant, brave, almost noble, but he's also beautiful, and if that mad git is ever going to belong to anyone, it should probably be me.

He runs his violin bow over his instrument gently, stands up, and walks to the window. I can feel his restlessness rolling off of him in waves. Much better if Lestrade was coming over instead of Mycroft.

"If we're flirting John," he says, almost gently, "This is when you ask me when I find you attractive in return. There is a certain amount of give and take with these things, and it won't do you being stubborn about it. As you're so fond of pointing out, I'm stubborn enough for both of us put together."

My mouth drops open in shock. So much for years. Panic rises in my throat, I like the soft curves of women, and while there is a sensuous look to Sherlock, especially his arse which I find my gaze narrowing in on far too often, his gruff masculinity does not fit neatly into my ideal of a sweet little wife bustling around the kitchen and giving cuddles on the couch. "Sherlock! I'm not flirting with you. I'm not gay!"

"You are a one on the Kinsey scale. Roughly. I just happen to be attractive and brilliant enough to have caught your eye."

If Sherlock isn't being a complete git, I do tend to listen to him, despite his arrogance. That plus my intermittent fantasies about… well… that, make me cross my arms belligerently and look over at him. "Right. Fine. When do you find me most attractive then, Sherlock?"

"Now."

I look down at my dumpy sweater, and get a peek at my tired eyes and greying hair in the mirror above the mantel. There's a gentle "tsk" from Sherlock. He's playing the violin softly now. Despite the hardness of his face his music is gentle, almost coaxing "Vain, John. But yes, now. Not just now now, however. Always now. You remind me of one thing I never had before I met you."

I lick my lips. Sherlock is being borderline romantic right now, which is one of those rare things that should be recorded and documented, like National Geographic footage. "What is that?"

He's smirking. His voice is dry, almost defensively sardonic. "Home."


	7. Worth the Gas Bill

**SHERLOCK HOLMES:**

The safe-cocoon like place that John is probably imagining wasn't exactly what I meant by 'home', but of course the man has promptly gone starry eyed and is staring at me from across the room with his mouth hanging open, and I find that I do not have any desire to clarify my meaning. He stays this way for at least five minutes before Mycroft enters the flat, his irritating umbrella twirling in a manner that almost knocks a rack of test tubes containing an extremely delicate experiment from the coffee table. I am not completely surprised to see Lestrade following in his footsteps; occasionally my brother pulls him out as some kind of wild card to see if it would help me see reason in regards to his government cases. The interruption is expected, thanks to a 6am phone call, but irritating, because I was making note of exactly how many times John Watson licked his lips nervously as he wracked his brain for something to say in response to my meticulously planned endearment, and how many different shades of pink and red he blushed (though none are quite as deep as the particularly _salacious_ beet red color he radiated directly after he was describing me ranting about the flat in my dressing gown).

As Mycroft enters, I begin to play "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" in the manner of an accomplished preschooler, if said preschooler was drunk. I mentally apologize to Lestrade, who seems taken aback by my choice of music (I tend to play sonatas around him, if he is occasionally impressed by my "humanity" he lets me in on more cases) but grin when John gives a snort of laughter. I have started playing, of course, so that he breaks his focus on me; his face was beginning to vaguely resemble a goldfish. My scheme is moderately effective, though I can tell that Mycroft is aware that John is glancing in my general direction with a frequency that is unusual, even for the attentive blogger of the World's Only Consulting Detective.

John sits back down on the couch, and Lestrade next to him. The DI leans forward with his arms resting on his elbows. Mycroft, of course, commandeers my chair, and I, rolling my eyes at his presumption, sit in John's.

It sinks deeper than mine, and smells warm, as though someone has drunk tea and eaten toast on it with remarkable frequency. The arms of the chair are also rubbed to a shade of brown lighter than the rest of the chair, and carry the scent of antibacterial soap. My nose twitches slightly. The chair also smells mildly of blood that had been refrigerated for about a week before drying at room temperature for eight hours.

Oh, right, that was the remnants of "Larry" (John was so unimaginative with his names for my experiments) who fell on the coffee table at 4am this morning before John woke up and had to be chucked in the bin as it upset the gestation of the maggots in his nostrils and hippocampus.

I glance at a red blotch on the coffee table that looks a bit like dried plum jam. I should probably clean that up.

I shift and throw my legs over one of the chair-arms, trying to both sulk in Mycrofts general direction and look mildly interested in Lestrade's. John, who often chooses to disentangle himself from the crossfire when Mycroft is involved, apparently decides that his best course of action is to go and make tea. I chose not to notice the playful look on his face. Playful for John usually means he is going to sneak in a little Sudoku.

Mycroft begins assaulting the room with his dry, pompus voice: "Little brother, the situation is very serious. Last night, several bombs went off in the tubes at a nearby station, and we have evidence that it is an Afghani faction. A few disparate supporters of Osama have been drifting slowly but surely into Britain since America started the war, and it seems that the bomb scare several years back was only a precursor to what they might have in store for us."

Lestrade casts an irritated look in my brother's direction. Probably he has been "kidnapped" for this meeting by my brother. I glace at him, taking in his appearance and thus his interrupted morning activity; sweatpants, long sleeved shirt, an MP3 player peeking out of his pants pocket… it is still fairly warm outside for early October, so he must have been jogging on his day off. He nods, begrudgingly though as he turns to me. "It's a serious situation, Sherlock. We don't have any members in custody, only an anonymous note on a government website and some hypothetical evidence of bomb making activity in a deserted apartment just outside of London. We need someone to help us find the leader of the group."

There is absolute silence from the kitchen. The case sounds interesting, yes, but I'm not about to jeopardize how far I've come with my long standing obsession with a case. "I can't work without John, and I need an assistant." I said, narrowing my eyes at my brother.

"What about John? He goes with you on every single case; how is this one any different?" Lestrade looked skeptical.

"My brother is referring to Dr. Watson's service in the 3rd Regiment Fuslillards as an Army Doctor. He was in Afghanistan for 3 years, and if I understand correctly still occasionally has nightmares."

I sneer at Mycroft's reference to the nightmares; he didn't have to go that far, could have just mentioned the psycho-somatic limp. It makes an impression on Lestrade, however, who apparently is still adjusting from thinking of John as my lucky rabbits foot to thinking of him as some Sherlockian lion tamer, if the intake of breath and gentle oooo is anything to go by. I mutter, "Right."

"I didn't… right." Lestrade looks a little sheepish. People seldom realize there is much of a fighter behind John. He told me once he occasionally plans it that way. Bloody jumpers.

Hang on, was this warm in here before? I note that Mycroft is beginning to look distinctly uncomfortable in his three piece suit, and I lick sweat off my upper lip. I blink, and focus on listening for a moment. Yes, the fans are whirring. Why the hell had John put the heating on?

It dawns on me as I see Lestrade struggle out of his sweatshirt. Ohhhh, John is brilliant!

"John, is the heating on the blink again?" I call into the kitchen.

"Yeah," He calls back, sounding half sheepish. "I might need to call the gas men again." He strolls out into the living room, unbuttoning his shirt casually. In relief, Lestrade grins and pulls his t-shirt over his head with the easiness of a bloke who's been married to a woman for 15 years and has no interest in masculine muscle structure. 0 on the Kinsey scale for him. Mycroft, on the other hand, is studiously looking at the mantelpiece.

"Sherlock." I look up at John and with the appreciation Lestrade lacks take in a muscular but lithe body with golden hair running from between his nipples to below his waistline. He flushes at the directness of my gaze, but he's a soldier, he's been half naked around other half naked men before, so he doesn't look away. "Don't molly-coddle me. Digging out a terrorist faction with you is much different than watching men die needlessly in Afghanistan. There's only one of you, and you're much easier to keep track of. "

"I suppose I can be." Of course, I have to remember that with Dr. Watson Queen and Country comes before his mental health.

My shirt is a little tight, so it takes me longer to unbutton it, but when it comes off Mycroft is thoroughly uncomfortable. If he were 30 years younger he would be making exaggerated gagging noises behind his hand.

"Does that mean you're taking the case Sherlock?" He asks, looking faintly ill. His gaze flicks between myself and John, probably thinking that this is our version of sexual foreplay. Perhaps it is? If so, John is far more interesting than any of my other 'lovers' have ever been. Baiting my older brother is one of the few romantic gestures I will ever concede to.

"As long as my blogger's willing, I suppose I am." I try and sound bored, but I'm not really. John is staring with interest at my nipples, and from the look on his face is adjusting his sexuality accordingly.

"Lestrade will fill you in on the details then." Half shielding his face with his hand, Mycroft leaves, clearly disturbed with the lack of propriety in the room.

Lestrade watches him go, a puzzled expression on his face. "Sherlock, is your brother gay?" He is painfully unaware that the two other men in the room are relatively-comfortable-with-being-very-close-to-gay-with-each-other.

John shrugs, and the three of us start to giggle almost manically with the air of three men who have been kidnapped by the British Government with a long black car once too often. I sit down on the other side of John on the sofa. A corner of my mouth twitches upward as he very pointedly doesn't look at me. I brush against his arm. John's lips are going to be incredibly chapped if he keeps licking at them like that.

However, Lestrade pulls out a file and is wearing his "please do include me in your eccentric lifestyle" face, so I lean away from my flat mate and mentally schedule his molestation for a later date.


	8. Conductor of Light

(note: Sherlock does not belong to me. And here is a kiss, everyone! A fairly chaste kiss, but a kiss nonetheless! Will these boys ever stop being emotionally stunted and/or distracted? Will they ever take off their pants around each other? Find out… eventually…

Also, hope Sherlock's deduction sounds Sherlockian enough…)

**Sherlock Holmes**_: You'll never be the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light, you're unbeatable!_

– The Hound of the Baskervilles, Sherlock BBC

**JOHN WATSON:**

After Lestrade left, Sherlock barely glanced up at me from the folder he was holding in his hands. He was moving, and there was a harsh tension in his back, which was rather interesting to observe as he hadn't put his shirt back on. Occasionally he'd twitch, as if tossing something in his mind's eye out of the way. It really doesn't take me too long to adjust to this anymore.

There he goes again with his mind-palacing.

I drifted into the kitchen, turned down the thermostat (the look on Mycroft's face had been priceless), and put my shirt back on. Drifting back out to the sitting room I watched him for a little while. Usually he tosses me out before he begins his 'process' but I assume he's getting used to me by now. I gently pat his shoulder; I doubt he will respond.

"Right, errr, I'll go upstairs for a moment then, let me know when you've finished love."

I wince, the last word slipped out involuntarily, but I decide it would be more awkward if I try to explain it away and head upstairs.

"Don't be that pedestrian John"

I glance back at him. He isn't looking at me, he's still sorting through his brain.

"Oh, that, I… it just sort of came out. I didn't really mean it, I know we're not even really in a relationship yet."

"Of course we're in a relationship John. We have been for months. Everyone who interacts with another person on a regular basis is in a relationship, it's just the way you define a relationship that gives you things like kissing or babies." (The last word he practically spits out in disgust. It is good that the future of mankind does not depend on the progenies of Sherlock Holmes.)

"So you've already defined our relationship then."

Sherlock closes his eyes, and brings his hands together before opening them again. When he does open them it's disconcerting, because his eyes are still glazed, but his attention is focused in my general direction. "I will never love you, John. Love isn't a feeling, it is a tradition. It is mindless, pre-packaged trope. I am obsessed with you, but never expect me to love you."

I smirk. "Did you just shut down your mind palace for me? Before you finished?"

"I didn't shut it down, it's on pause. It is my brain, John. I can do anything I want to with it."

"Normally not for other people though."

His mouth spasms into a smile, almost involuntary. "It is important to keep my blogger happy."

He wants to start moving his hands again, I can tell, but I walk over to him. He shrinks back a little as I touch him. "This isn't the best time, John." He sounds mildly irritated, but he isn't shooing me away like a disobedient dog.

"Sherlock, I'm not entirely sure if it would ever be the best time with you. You've told me I'm attractive to you. Fine, yes, okay, that was a bit of a shock, because I'm really not. And before that you seemed to be trying to go out of your way to prove my bisexuality to me in a fairly unorthodox manner. So, okay, you are obsessed with me. Is this a kissing kind of obsession, or is this the sort of obsession where you wind your flat-mate up to an emotional crescendo, and then get bored and irritated with him when it turns out he's not on the same wave-length as you?"

"You're not an experiment John, now please! I need to get back. I think I'm almost there." His fingers are twitching by the side of his thighs, like he's trying to grab onto something.

I reach up and stroke his cheek. It feels rather like gentling a wild stallion who has been running by himself for far too long. It occurs to me, as I touch him, that I am standing and touching Sherlock's mind; that as I touch and brush against his cheek I really might as well be touching and brushing against the grey creases of his brain. He might have put the searching and cataloguing on hold for me but he was still very much there in his mind, and not here in the outside world. "What's it like in there?" I ask. "Sorry, I see you like this enough that I wonder."

It is almost a rhetorical question, but Sherlock sighs, a little impatiently, "It's big, and it's an information dump. Everything is in there; it's like waterfalls, I suppose, though not really scenic, more just… data."

I kiss him just under his jawbone, chaste, but I let my lips linger. He twitches but doesn't move. I'm not entirely sure what I'm expecting, perhaps I want him to look down, be distracted by me, and kiss back, but I know he wouldn't. He is such a paradox right now, passive but with an almost manic attentiveness, split between me and the data shifting through him. For one long moment I don't move. I feel a bit like I am attempting to mate with a praying mantis. If I make one wrong move he will move his head down, see me, and crush me. I'm not sure if it's an gesture of sacrifice, supplication, or perhaps the love he doesn't believe in.

A strong arm crushes me to his chest. "Wait, John, stay right… oh bollocks, it's gone now but that was perfect, what you did was good! Yes, there you are." He seems to be drawing a map in the air with his finger. "Perfect! Lestrade wanted us at the scene of one of the bombings, but we don't really need to now, that's what I was trying to get at. The location is here in this file. The man's finger nails… it was the finger nails!" He makes a circle with his thumb and forefinger and squints at the invisible map. "There!"

"Fingernails?" I'm overwhelmed by the praise, and the sensation of having the air crushed out of my lungs.

"Look!" He pulled a picture of a body that looked significantly dead out of a file, along with a close up picture of his hands. "Most of the bombers managed to escape the scene of the first explosion, except for this one who was shot by a policeman who had seen him plant a suitcase. He had climbed the stairs, and was getting on the escalators, which means he would have been at a height that would not have caught him in the blast radius. This man's fingernails are yellowed in a manner which might at first suggest smoking, though of course the police didn't pay it much attention in the reports. He had a full post-mortum, which checked out fine, no underling conditions. But, for a man who is still relatively young to have his fingernails discolored to that extent he would have to be a chain smoker, so we would expect to see evidence of either a pack of cigarettes or tobacco. None such items found on the body, also, if one studies the close ups, no indentations in his shirt or trouser pocket that suggest he has such a habit. He is fairly well off, and keeps himself clean as evidenced by the name brand clothing. The bombs used do not contain chemicals that would discolor his nails either. Therefore, the yellow on his fingernails is probably dirt, which we can assume was acquired by him as he was making the bombs before he left to demolish the underground. Now, middle class sector of London, which has fenced yard space where he can manufacture bombs without the neighbors seeing and yellowish dirt… would be…"

He pointed at his invisible map.

"That was absolutely brilliant." My eyes are a little bit glazed. My hard-drive is already full, and that was a slight data overload.

"You helped."

"I kissed you. I'm not sure if that constitutes 'help'."

He smirked. "If it did, would you kiss me more often?" He drags on his shirt, then grabs me by the arm. "Actually, forget that last question. You _will_ be kissing me more often, John Watson. If you don't I'll throw tantrums and make your life miserable. Come along! The game is afoot!"

"That's a bit of an anachronism, isn't it?" I mutter as I find myself almost literally dragged out of our flat.


	9. Public Conversation

**SHERLOCK HOLMES**:

I am beginning to think of him in the possessive. My blogger. My soldier. My doctor. My flatmate. My friend. I study my possession as I pull him out the door behind me, and slip my arm around his shoulder. From now on John will be kissed frequently in the rain behind skips as we wait for a suspect to make his next move. When we are at crime scenes and he looks at me in awe and says "brilliant" I will sneak my hand up to the nape of his neck and rest it their gently for a moment before moving on to my next deduction. When I say "come along John" and he follows with his usual dogged determination, I will occasionally stop to catch him if it is not urgent, and press him briefly to my chest before dashing off again.

John is the exception and he is mine. No one has mattered before John, and no one but John will do.

"Sherlock". The tone of John's voice is disapproving, and he brushes my hand off his opposite shoulder.

I scowl at this. "If you are mine, how am I supposed to concentrate on anything if you're pretending to be not-mine? Are you going to schedule when you kiss me now because you don't want to be gay in public?"

"No, no, Sherlock, that's not it. It's all fine…"

Right. I sling my arm around his shoulders again.

"But…"

"Oh God." I roll my eyes.

"Look, I follow you around enough already. I am your yes man, to a certain extent, your protector. I make sure you don't die while you use your large quantities of grey matter to make sure other people don't."

"Yes, and if we occasionally kiss and I act a little possessive, how is that going to affect the rest of it?"

"Because, you mad, intellectual git, if you kiss me, and essentially cling to me, that makes me the most important person in the world to you. That makes me a target. If I'm a target, I can't protect you."

"You're already the most important person in the world to me; you started being that when you shot the mad cabbie. The dangerous people pick up on it instantaneously. You were already Moriarty's target, and you caught Miss Adler's attention. And, both of us know the stupid people are easy to have arrested and put in jail. So, if the dangerous people have figured it out and the stupid people are not a threat, I think we're okay." I pause. "And I do not 'cling'. You're too short to cling to anyway."

I pull John closer, and he momentarily grimaces like he's drowning. He fits neatly under my arm. "It's also just a little undignified," he mutters.

A thought occurs to me. "Are you going to want to get married? It would make financial sense but I really don't care for those kinds of social institutions."

"SHERLOCK" My blogger looks to be on the verge of hyperventilation. "I KISSED YOU LESS THAN TEN MINUTES AGO".

Two business men stop in their tracks before hurrying onward, a teenage girl of about 16 turns to look at us and squeals, and an elderly lady turns around in a full circle to confront us with an adoring look on her face. "Oh that's wonderful dear. It's so lovely that people are open-minded now. Not like in my day!" She pats John's cheek, winks at me with a murmured 'oh, he's a looker', and hobbles on.

It looks like John might be getting a headache. Time to hail a cab.


	10. Kiss Me

(An awkward Molly encounter and SMUTSMUTSMUT! WOOOO!

And for the record, I love all my readers, and desperately want to take all my reviewers out for texting and scones! Thank you all!)

**JOHN WATSON:**

"Kiss me."

Sherlock is sitting in the lab at St. Barts, eyes focused on the microscope. Samples of the bomber's blood had been sent to the lab by the police this morning, and as Sherlock entered the cab he decided he needed to check the genetics of the men involved before rushing off to what I was mentally referring to as "Yellow soil" neighborhood.

Personally, I am beginning to feel rather claustrophobic. Sherlock seems to be assuming that my kiss is evidence that he has been successful at wooing me, and is now handling his obsession with the efficient logic he uses for cases; thoroughly and methodically (Marriage? God no!). However, he also seems to be getting agitated that I am not "on demand" for him, even after the first half hour of our supposed 'relationship'. I turn my back to him, irritated that his order for a kiss is so similar to the orders he gives me to text a criminal or hand him a book less than two bloody feet away. I am aware that occasionally if he asks for something without making eye contact and I do not respond immediately he'll forget my presence for a half hour or so anyway, and for now am mildly gratified when he does.

Molly comes into the lab with a cheerful smile and two cups of coffee. "Here you go John!"

"Oh, good, thank you," I murmur, turning away a bit. If Sherlock is possessive enough to suggest marriage ten minutes after I kiss him on the chin, I am wary about interacting with anybody until we have time to discuss this further. Especially Molly, as I rather like her; she's a nice girl.

I wince slightly as the true motive for the coffee makes itself known. Molly bustles over next to Sherlock cheerfully, and sets the cup down. There are ten seconds that are a little like dragging fingernails over a chalkboard.

She is just about to walk away with her usual small 'okay' when Sherlock, with impeccably bad timing, comes back to consciousness, and flicks only his eyes up at me with an insistent glare.

"Kiss. Me." He says in a mildly threatening voice.

Molly flushes bright red, and probably without really thinking things through, leans over with a swish of her lab coat and gets him on the cheek.

The strangled grunt of irritation as his eyes widen with alarm is priceless; Sherlock Holmes almost literally falls off his stool. I cover my mouth to strangle my laughter out of respect for poor Molly, who is backing towards the door, still in shock, both at the demand and the result.

"Molly!" Sherlock is faking rather nicely. It's impossible not to be kind to Molly, really. I have gone out of my way to methodically brainwash him into realizing this. "You snuck up on me a bit there."

"Oh! Ummm, sorry. But then who…" Her gaze flicked from Sherlock to the only other breathing person in the room...

3… 2… 1…

"oh… Ooooooohhhhhh…" She is laughing. "Oh God that's wonderful. It makes sense, he follows you around everywhere!" She backs away grinning, and almost falls over backwards getting out of the room, probably to go hide in a closet and cry. I sigh and rub the bridge of my nose when she is out of the room.

Sherlock stands up and looks over at me. Even from across the room there was a slight downward slant to his gaze. I grimace and meet his eyes. He hooks his hands together behind his back. "Dr. Watson. Kiss. Me."

I stick out my chin in definance. "I don't think so, no."

I find out that if Sherlock Holmes walks towards you with THAT look on his face you feel very. Very. Small.

"Why not?"

"For God's sake, it's not like me tossing you a pen Sherlock! If you want me to kiss you, you have to ask!"

"Fine." He almost spits out, raising his eyes to the ceiling. "John Watson, kiss me, please baby please."

His voice is dripping so heavily with sarcasm I can practically see it running down his chin. I shake my head and duck under his arm and head toward the door of the lab.

"John!"

Don't say anything, keep walking.

He grabs me by the collar of my coat and pushes me away from the door, against a wall. "Ow, shit Sherlock!"

"John, I can't think! I keep going over and over the same thing again and again, and then I think of you. I can't WORK, unless you kiss me. So kiss me damn it, or stop giving me that belligerent look so I can kiss you."

"What, so do you think that every time you kiss me you're going to get an epiphany?"

His jaw tightens in irritation. "Only when I'm aroused."

Well, how could I refuse that then?

I nod slightly, and he breathes with relief and a soft moan, and lurches into me like an awkward teenager. At first he just seems to be struggling to latch on, his lips move over my face and are a little too wet, he's trying to find my lips, to find some sort of purchase, and for a moment I decide that Mycroft must be right, he is a virgin. I reach out to his shoulders to steady him and slow him down, take it slow John, he's… he's…

He finds my mouth, and almost snarls with satisfaction as our tongues slide together, grabbing my shirt and using it to push me up against the wall again so my head knocks against it. At this the other hand drags up my back and his fingers lace tightly into my hair. His kiss is perfect, all mouth and lip with no teeth, and he makes deep but breathy moans as he attempts to push himself into me, to overwhelm me. Initially I feel my body giving in to him, going limp, but I force myself out of my haze and bite his lip in return. He sighs in satisfaction as I assert myself, roughly shoving his body against me and starting to rub a very prominent erection slowly up and down against my thigh.

Oh god. Being gentle is right out then. I rock into his body and knock him backward into a chair which he doesn't quite sit on before stumbling to the floor. He almost leaps up again, but my military training trumps even the great Sherlock Holmes' boxing ability, and I throw myself down on him, sitting on his chest so he can't get up. "Sherlock." I gasp down at him. "That was NOT virginal."

He grins smugly and crooks an arm behind his head. "Problem?"

"God no"

I lean down, languidly, and take my time sucking and biting a mark on his long white neck. He is completely silent except for a gasping moan. "So," I murmur. "I have you too turned on to work, do I?"

"John." I zero in on the frustration in his voice with intense satisfaction.

"Listen. I am going to do something for you, and when we (eventually) get back to the flat, you are going reciprocate. Understand?"

He nods, straining his hips against me. I get up, and push him over to the counter, motioning him to sit up on it, and fumble with his belt and pants. I'm not entirely sure if I'm going to be good at this, I've never handled a man before. But as I slide him into my mouth as far as it can go until I gag softly against it, I feel his legs stretch. When I look up he is leaning over me, his sharp eyes staring as if I'll vanish if he blinks. Gently, he moves my chin and strokes the junction between my lips and his flesh before gasping and leaning back against the wall.

Maybe this will be easier than I thought.


	11. Rare

(I hope my readers don't mind a short detour. Moffat & Gatiss' depiction of women in this TV series is the only thing about it that irritates me beyond belief. Molly is kind but weak enough to still crush on Sherlock despite his abuse. Sally is powerful but a bitch, Irene is powerful but sexualized.

This scene is my heart's desire for Molly.)

**MOLLY HOOPER**

She probably shouldn't have stayed to listen but she had, flinching at the loud demands of Sherlock, eyes widening at what sounded like a fist fight before it turned into something that sounded like moans of pleasure. She backed away, saw a *Caution: Slippery when wet* sign down the hall and quickly snatched it up, propping it against the door as quietly as possible before hurrying back to the morgue. Joan and Michael had done something similar last month when they were going at it in the exam rooms, and she assumed most of the hospital workers knew enough by now to steer clear.

Blindly she looked at the chart, and began preparing a Mrs. P for post-mortem. As she worked, she talked to the corpse. She usually assumed that since they had been alive not so long ago that they liked being spoken to, even if they were being cut open and prodded at with no clothes on.

"He's really quite mean, isn't he? I thought that he'd be nice if he fell in love, but he really isn't. I mean, he yelled at John, and then it turned into a fist fight. Is that what John's going to have to do every time… you know?"

She paused for Mrs. P to give her input. She seemed like she had been a fairly kind older woman, she she assumed her reply would be: _Well, that's men for you dear. They can be a little rough._

"Well, yeah, but no. It's almost as if they had to be like that. John couldn't let Sherlock push him around and piss on him anymore, so he had to actually fight him, like Sherlock is some kind of battle."

The corpse seemed confused. _Which one did you like before again?_

"Sherlock. He is RATHER good looking, probably the most brilliant man in London, if not the world, and you should see him play the violin. It's almost romantic. That and he doesn't look disgusted when I let out my morgue humor. But he is quite mean. I thought being in love would soften him."

Mrs. P chuckled. _ Love doesn't change people dear. Not really._

"I'm not even really crying. I suppose I should be. I knew him longer than John. I keep saving him body parts for what I assume is experiments of some kind. I let him manipulate me. It's obvious really and he probably thinks I'm foolish. I'm not though, I only let him go against protocol because I know he's probably going to be saving people's lives."

_The man you described before doesn't sound like a humanitarian. Are you talking about two different people?_

"No, no, it's Sherlock. He's not good or kind, but he usually ends up doing what's right in the end. I suppose he's been even more right in the time he's known John. I heard John slapped him hard once on a crime scene because he covered up a body for a month so he could do some mad experiment on it."

_You'd have to be mad to want a relationship like that. Both of those men sound a little mad, Molly. _

"Well, I'm mad too. Look at me, I talk to corpses."

_You're not mad, dear, just lonely. _

She bit her lip and looked around the empty room. Sighing she walked away from Mrs. P and began to input data into the computer. When there was a knock on the door she jumped.

"No need to knock!" she called out, cheerfully, wiping her eyes.

John Watson came in and sheepishly set down a coffee with an assortment of sugars and creamers on the desk. He was sipping at his own cup and was a little rumpled and looked guilty, smelling strongly of Sherlock. "Thanks for propping that against the door," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his head. John Watson was not as brilliant as Sherlock Holmes, but Molly was sure he knew what the sign meant.

She giggled. "You're not REALLY gay, are you? You keep saying you're not."

He swung around and looked at her, at first with a sympathetic expression on his face, expecting her to be trying to split them up, which was impossible really. When he saw that she was genuinely laughing and not giggling defensively, however, he laughed back. "No, actually, you're right, I'm not gay. That's the first time we, uh did anything about it too, so I suppose I should be having an identity crisis."

"But you're not."

He shook his head. "No, it's just Sherlock."

There was silence as they sipped their coffee. Molly looked at Mrs. P on the table. "I don't mind, you know. I know I'm a bit obvious about the fact I like him a great deal. But I can't really help it. And it occurred to me…" she blushed. "I suppose I overhead a bit. But I'm glad you can tell him no. I wouldn't want to. The fact that you can, and you're there, is almost a relief to me."

John was blushing, but he smiled. "You know you're very pretty Molly. And that's coming from a not-gay man."

"Oh… okay. Th-thanks. I'll keep helping him too, especially if you're there, because I know you'll make sure he does good."

A small tension seemed to have been lifted from John's shoulders. "That's good. Thanks. He depends on you quite a lot really."

She laughed again. "Now that he has you, he'd hardly be able to MOVE without you."

"Probably not. Speaking of which I must dash. That mad wanker's probably finished deducing by now and we'll have to go chasing criminals around London."

She grinned. "Let him know I'll have some fingers for him tomorrow."

John snorted with laughter. "He keeps them in the kitchen fridge you know."

"Really? Oh God!" Her eyes widened in horror, but she straightened her back and gave a mock salute. "Go, John Watson, the safety of London depends on you."

"Ta Molly."

After he left, she looked up from her work on the computer at Mrs. P.

"That probably would not have gone so well if not for you. Thanks!"

_Anytime dear. Maybe you should start looking for men who are more like John Watson?_

She thought about it as she finished the typing in the data, then shook her head as she slid Mrs. P back into the refrigerated wall. "Now that is a breed of man that is even rarer than Sherlock Holmes."


	12. Be it Ever so Humble

(Note: Warning for smut, dominance play, and what is probably the beginning of what would be to normal people a rather unhealthy relationship. There really is no way around it. These two men are stark raving mad. Thankfully they are stark raving mad for each other. I also hope it's clear that John's interaction with Molly in the previous chapter takes place around the "OoOoOoOo" spot. True to his nature, Sherlock is completely unaware of it.)

**SHERLOCK HOLMES:**

I couldn't keep myself from gasping as I felt John's throat convulsing against the tip. Oh that man, that man who could see through my admittedly bizarre courtship, rile me up until I couldn't be bothered to deduce him anymore, and finish the game with my cock in his mouth.

He was bad at it, of course, the blow job that is. He used far too many teeth and he kept stopping to shift a stiff jaw. He was new at it; I was his first man, but I had been thinking about this for far too long for it to matter. Rhythm and prowess means very little to me, in any case, what matters is not really the feeling but the analysis, the observation, the awkward but determined John-like movements as he slicked his mouth and tongue over my shaft and pushed my thoughts temporarily away from the case and toward both him and orgasm.

And my god, if he didn't keep playing _the game_. After a particularly painful jaw cramp, he growled with frustration and stood up. With me on the counter he only came up to my chest, but he grabbed me by the shirt collar and directed my gaze to where his hand was still gliding over my wet, wet… oh god.

"Are you deducing that Sherlock?" His voice was hoarse, but polite as usual, and it occurred to me that John wasn't really looking at my cock with anything like desire. He wasn't attracted to the visual stimulus of what he was doing, but he was looking with aroused, sensual triumph at my face.

"Nngh… John…please…"

He pressed his hand to my mouth. "Lick." He said softly, and "good." When I complied, and used my saliva to keep his hands lubricated against me. Then he leaned into me, and I could feel his breath tickle against my ear.

"I am looking forward to quite a lot of things from you, Sherlock. You know, I'm still questioning whether I'm particularly attracted to the physical, well…" He looked down at my cock, hesitated, then bent over and slid it into his wet mouth. I groaned, and grabbed his head in an attempt to keep him there, but he stood up again and whispered into my ear. "It is nice, it's very nice, but I'm more straight than gay. But I want to do so many things to you Sherlock. I want to see you look at me like you can't control yourself. I want to see you looking at me with my cock inside of you." He twitched against my cheek and licked his lips. His breath was hot in my ear, and as ragged as mine was right now. "We're both strong in different ways. I want us to keep fighting each other, and I want it to be good, and I don't want either of us to ever, EVER win."

My mind was so blasted by the case, the newness of John, and the way that glorious man was speaking to me that I couldn't think of anything to say. My mouth was open, I was sure my pupils were dilated, and I could feel my heart thrumming against my chest. His hand was getting dry again, so he stopped moving it, and pressed up against me. God, he was hard too.

"That," he murmured. "Is from the look on your face, just now Sherlock. God, if only you could see how beautiful you are."

When bent down between my legs and took me in his mouth again I saw stars. I tried to move into his mouth gently, but he looked up at me impatiently and I felt a guttural growl rising in my throat. I grabbed his hair and shoved my cock in his throat roughly, feeling his finger nails dig into my thighs. "Mine," I murmured with each thrust until he was coughing against my semen, "mine, mine, mine, mine… "

OoOoOoOo

I confirm my analysis, the men in this terrorist faction are all related, which is both a very good thing (all members of the faction probably know each other, this was not a Moriarty-style web, it would be easy to track them) and a very bad thing (they would be tightly unified, and even more prepared to commit senseless acts of violence to impress each other). One could roughly estimate from the data provided by the police and general knowledge of Afghani social groups that perhaps 5 men remained; a terrorist's age is ordinarily between the ages of 16 and 40, old enough to be an acceptable risk, young enough to MOVE when necessary. Of course what I hadn't counted on was the 6 year old boy cowering in the back corner of the garden next to a pile of scrap wood and metal shards, nervously glancing from his guardian to John to myself as we circle each other cautiously.

Reckless, John had said in irritation as I climbed over a fence just too tall for both himself and his shoulder to manage, and I suppose he was been right. While I had managed to unlock the gate on the other side for him with relative ease, directly after the latch was unhitched a man with a thick Arabic accent had pulled a gun of his own and was aiming it at the center of my forehead. So, when John followed me into the yard I saw his fluid transformation from blogger to soldier, the blue eyes turning black, narrowing, sighting along his gun as though the bullet didn't start in the cartridge but in his shoulder and was already running toward the barrel through his arm.

John is mostly focused but not completely. He keeps glancing over at the child, who stares back at him with the barest amount of comprehension on his young face, uncertainty flicking through his dark eyes.

I no longer sit at the foot of John's bed at night. It is now pointless as over the course of the past month I had felt him gravitating towards me emotionally anyway. Occasionally, however, I have heard panicked rustling from the bed upstairs as he is caught in a nightmare, and I go to his door, push it open, and say "John" sharply so it rouses him from the dream but isn't a steady enough disturbance (like my breathing) to fully wake him up.

Usually if he makes noise, it is a strangled grunt of alarm, but on more than one occasion it has also been the words, dully repeated: "No. no no no no not the boy, it was the… not the boy."

For some reason, that emotionless chant makes something sickening curl in the pit of my stomach the way no terrified scream ever could.

"Please." My Arabic is limited, but I hope it will be sufficient to convey my message. "No." I gesture toward the boy. "Please." I repeat, and point back to the house.

The man blinks in surprise, but nods, and shouts something to the boy, who glowers at us as he runs between John and I toward the house and relative safety.

"Now my brothers will be here sooner." The terrorist says, with an air of triumph.

I turn to John, and am surprised to see that he looks as though someone has kicked him in the stomach.

"Not good?" I murmur as I slowly move close enough to speak with him, but not close enough to concentrate the terrorist's aim. Normally I wouldn't have let the child through; the man was right, he would be able to alert other members of the faction to his aid, but I had thought John would appreciate the gesture.

"What? Oh god Sherlock, of course that was good. That was amazingly spectacularly good."

He still looks upset, but I nod.

The man's attention is split between John and myself. This is primarily going to be a matter of timing.

I let out a breath. "I am obsessed with you quite a lot, John Watson."

"Likewise." He says softly, studying the man's face, making as if to hold his gun unsteadily (as if John Watson was capable of such a thing) and working to catch his eye. Suddenly his motions became almost fluid, and his body twitches ever so slightly in my direction. "Vatican… cameos."

I was down, and it beautiful. There is an explosion of gunpowder both in front of me and directly behind me, and I am running, almost on all fours towards the terrorist's midsection, because I know my blogger, and know that he will aim off center because we work in perfect unison now and there is no reason why this man should be killed. There is another shot, but it is wild, up in the air. I take a page from John's book and sit on the man's chest, pinning him until I am able to relieve him of his gun. I phone Lestrade, who is apparently waiting for us at the bomb site; he assures us he will be there to pick up the terrorist and hopefully his faction promptly.

John has maimed the man's gun arm, and it is short work for the two of us to handcuff him to the garden gate. John's eyes are beginning to soften around the edges as he settles into his post-crime scene chuckle "God, can we get any madder?"

I smile wide. "John. This. Home." I gesture at him, at the incapacitated perp, the gun, my brain, the vibrating energy in the air and possibly just the whole adventure of it all. He looks at me for a moment, remembering this morning (god that seemed long ago).

_You remind me of one thing I never had before I met you._

_What is that?_

_Home._

John laughs so hard that he almost doubles over with tears in his eyes. "So every time you see me you think of crime scenes? My god, you brilliant, brilliant man."

As he kisses me, I note with a certain amount of pride the horror in the perp's eyes as he watches me with my wonderful doctor-blogger.

(I just wanted to mention that the comparison of John to a crime scene is done much more wonderfully in wordstring's series of Johnlock fics which begins with "Acts of Charity". If you want to read a Johnlock fanfic that truly explores Sherlock and John's madness, go read her stuff. You can find it with a google search)


	13. Not Official until Scotland Yard Knows

(Note: My little rant about the women in "Sherlock" in chapter 11 did not include either Mrs. Hudson or Sarah. I quite love both these female characters, but I still think that they are placed in situations which either make them seem like a damsel in distress or make them look unnecessarily foolish, despite their BAMFness. I'd explain my rather feminist views in minute detail, but I think we all want to get back to the Johnlock XD)

**JOHN WATSON**

When in the military, they teach you about being wary of 'wildcards', unknown elements that could incapacitate yourself or the mission. In retrospect, I knew that there was a wildcard on this mission; when he had run between us to the house the child had a look of betrayal and hate on his face that should have ticked me off to the fact that he might do something reckless. As a direct result of my oversight, I am lying flat on my back on an otherwise pleasant Saturday afternoon with a bandage around my thigh and Sherlock's tongue down my throat in the middle of a throng of policemen and Scotland Yard's finest.

The wound itself was extremely painful; not permanently damaging but deep, and I imagine a fantastic bruise is beginning a marvelous journey to every corner of the rainbow right underneath my left eye. Sherlock did deserve a kiss; possibly a million kisses, for punching me in the side of the face and relieving me of my gun when the tiny hellion struck from outside my line of vision with a paring knife. The last thing I need on my conscious is automatically shooting a small child in misdirected self-defense. I suppose Sherlock punched me hard enough to render me unconscious, which would explain why I am flat at the back in the first place.

"Oi, Freak! He doesn't need CPR, and even if he did you're doing it wrong." On any other person, the look on Donovan's face would imply that the milk on their cereal this morning was several weeks out of date and they were just starting to feel its effect.

I harrumph a little and sit up, wincing at the still pain in my neck from the punch. Sherlock stops the kiss, rocking back on his heels and looking mildly disappointed in me. I note that our terrorist has disappeared; the boy is off to the side crying, and is being taken care of by a woman officer. I sigh in relief, good. From the perspective of the child, who didn't understand the concept of bombs and mass death, he had been incredibly brave in protecting his family. "Did they get the rest of them?"

He shakes his head. "Still working on it. Though they probably won't come back here with this much firepower milling about. Idiot police. Another ambulance is coming soon; they had to take him first as you didn't get a chance to stabilize him and he was bleeding out a bit. They bandaged you up though."

"Thanks for punching me out. That happened in Afghanistan too, a kid attacked our regiment after we took out his dad and he got killed. I was too far away." I wince at the memory. I can't remember much of the boy, but I do remember the way his killer fell to his knees as if he had been shot instead of the child. There are soldiers in the world whose nightmares are probably worse than mine.

Sherlock nods. "I assumed something of the sort when he stabbed you. It explained the look on your face when I told the child to get in the house. You appreciated my effort to get the child out of harms way, but you would have preferred him to stay where he was so you could watch him. Children are so small, one does not think them capable of violence. "

I nod, then chuckle, wincing at the pain. "What does it say about our lifestyle that the most romantic gesture I can think of is you punching me in the face after I get stabbed in the thigh?"

"You know romance is not my area." Our noses are almost touching again, and he's carefully crouched over my lap, carefully not sitting on me

My vision is a little fuzzy, though I'm no longer sure whether it's from my brief stint of unconsciousness or the man leaning over me who looks as though he'd quite like to devour me whole. I lean back, and am thankful that there's something there for me to lean on as Sherlock gracefully wraps his hand around the back of my head, gives my lips a lick with his tongue until they open, and kisses me.

"Ew! They're having gay sex on my leg!"

I look up in shock, somehow it hadn't occurred to me that I had been leaning against a leg. I am treated to the shrewish countenance of Anderson, who looks like he's about vomit. Since Anderson usually looks as though he has just swallowed vomit, it's actually a mild improvement to his features. Sherlock looks as though he'd rather like to strangle Anderson both for being in an inconvenient location and carting around a large amount of homophobia, but then I really don't know anyone who wouldn't want to strangle Anderson.

I give him my kindest smile, and remembering the aggressive sex from earlier say, "Anderson, there's no need to worry. If we actually were having gay sex on your leg you'd know it, because you'd probably have a broken femur by now."

Anderson sputters, already backing away, and Sergeant Donovan appears with a paramedic who thankfully lets me sling an arm over his shoulder instead of forcing me down on a stretcher.

"So what?" I hear her asking Sherlock as I orient myself, "You have a boyfriend now? Was that actual kissing? I would have thought you were above messy things like falling in love."

"Please, Sergeant Donovan. Dr. Watson is much too important to fall in love with."

The sneer in his voice is strenuously disputed when he offers me his arm to steady myself and carefully watches my path as I hobble to the ambulance. Of course Sherlock Holmes would be chivalrous when he wasn't throwing a tantrum or inappropriately trying to stick a tongue down my throat. "Text me when they say you can go; you probably just need a few stitches. I'm going to look at the house with Lestrade."

There's an awkward moment when I kiss him on the cheek goodbye and see Lestrade standing off the side in shock as he mulls over his memory of what is now probably becoming classified as an inappropriate strip tease in a too hot flat.


	14. Anatomically Correct

**SHERLOCK HOLMES:**

I had anticipated finding the information about the other terrorists sooner, but as homespun as the organization was there was a fairly clever computer code that needed cracking, a secret room that needed to be discovered, and a key that had to be dug out of from under a garden gnome (well, the last was obvious. Why else would a terrorist faction own a garden gnome)? That, in addition to a madcap chase that dragged Lestrade and I through the seedier parts of London to arrive at a more secret secret base, and resulted in a gun fight that left one terrorist dead, one police officer maimed, and made me quite a bit later than anticipated. While I was gone, I missed several texts:

_16:36: Done – JW_

_17:50: Sarah drove me home – JW_

_19:04: Don't get yourself killed, you berk – JW_

I feel indescribably grimy and exhausted, I am sure even my eyeballs are dirty, yet I have a sudden urge to walk home instead of hailing a cab. There is something pleasurable in feeling my muscles slowly relax as I move closer to Baker Street, the adrenaline wears off, the anticipation of John grows in a hot pit in my stomach. The streets are dark and wet, the buildings tall and squashed unevenly together, the cars crammed neck to neck. The masses are wandering along the roads, and few seem to know exactly where they're going, or if they do seem to know, they don't have any plans for when they get there. I could deduce them but I don't need to, I can ignore it for now, there is a clear boundary between them and myself.

As I walk I ponder the human heart. Not the bow shaped thing stretched out on Valentines cards, but the organic valve system, the anatomically correct heart that was prevalent in medical texts and beat quite steadily in John Watson's chest. In the heart, deoxygenated blood enters, is pumped through the lungs, which give it, essentially, the breath of life in the form of oxygen, and then exits to circulate the oxygenated blood throughout the body, including the brain. In the metaphorical sense (and despite my close friendship with logic, art and metaphor do not entirely escape me), I consider that perhaps John Watson is my heart, pumping the feeling of humanity to my disparate organs, most importantly to my brain. I flush slightly, wondering if he'd like that in a card, then realize that since he seems to know me so well and is himself a doctor, he has probably come up with the metaphor himself already.

I remember what I was before him, a creature that ranted almost non-stop in a claustrophobic one room flat, often passing out from lack of food or too many drugs, walking the streets and inevitably finding myself in bad neighborhoods, in the middle of crime scenes, rattling off a deduction to a certain DI before I vanished again, like a stray cat into the night. Mycroft visiting once a month, scolding me for not being more self-sufficient and transferring me money from The Family at the bequest of Mummy, who always said he didn't do enough to help me. Before I met John Watson, I was a creature of instincts, none good. My brain essentially, took over my mind with its careless demands and lack of self-awareness; its desire only for The Work which didn't always make much sense but always tended to roll in the direction of detective work. And, since the police ended up needing me like a bad drug, I eventually named my occupation, The World's Only Consulting Detective.

My brain had waited so long for an opponent to test itself both against and with to escape its inevitable alienation both from my own body and also from the majority of humankind. Moriarty had provided a distraction, but only distanced myself from humanity, especially for those three years which John and I pointedly never talk about now. He worked at the hospital, I worked at bringing down Moriarty's network. When I entered 221B, he took my pulse, sat me down opposite him, and stared at me for three hours straight as I quietly explained myself. At the end he nodded, said, "that's good then", then chuckled almost manically as he apologized for throwing my experiments out as if I had expected him to keep them for me for three years.

I had come home from that after being pitted against the mind of a consulting criminal which still ticked away in the actions of his associates and underlings. There had been nothing beautiful about it, despite Moriarty's brilliance, and I came home broken but more sure of myself than ever before. I am still no angel, but I am more comfortable with being on their side.

When I came home then I felt as I do now, warm and light-headed with thought of him waiting (I had hoped for his patience, I supposed I could not guarantee his wait, but can you blame me if I did anyway?) comfortably in a wool jumper, my anatomically correct human heart.

I am shocked out of my thoughts by a public phone ringing as I walk by it. I scowl, I am within a block of the flat, and I do not want to deal with this right now. I turn around, reach in the box, pick it up. "Not NOW Mycroft!" I snap, then slam down the phone. My scowl only deepens when I see my elder brother on the front doorstep.

"Sherlock. You have been carrying on quite flamboyantly with our good Doctor today." Standing on the doorstep has given him a good three inches on me in height, and about 6 inches on me in obnoxious superiority.

"Get out of the way, Mycroft! I've only just arrived home, and I'm tired. I've captured your terrorist faction, and worked moderately well with the police in the process."

"Interesting. You never really used that word before. Not even in childhood."

I close my eyes in exasperation. "What word."

"Home. I suppose something or someone has made you change your impression of that."

I clench my fists. "Are you here to argue semantics with me, or do you actually have a purpose? Shouldn't you be stopping or starting a war right now Mycroft? Or at least doing some research on fad diets?"

Mycroft looks mildly perturbed, but it doesn't really stop him. I knew it wouldn't. "Sherlock, remember, I don't want to see you get hurt. I have started to wonder whether you depend on John Watson too much. Remember what Mummy longed for you little brother, self-sufficiency! If he were to get seriously injured or die, what would become of you?"

"Stop your meddling, Mycroft."

His hand grabs onto my shoulder as I attempt to shove through him to the door. "Caring is not an advantage."

The door swings inward, and I smirk. He must have been standing there waiting, and both Mycroft and I know it, but he carries on his charade of happening upon us together on chance impeccably. I suppose if you're an acquaintance of the Holmes brothers you eventually learn to ignore the constant deductions. He is leaning on his cane again and the bruise from the punch I gave him is now a bluish red color. He is tired but noticeably relaxes when he sees that I am unhurt.

"That's funny," John Watson says to Mycroft, in the mild kind way that means he would very much like to shoot you with his gun, "because there's two of us, and only one of you. Kind of hard to see the lack of advantage there."

As Mycroft does his best impression of 'rodent with stomach ache', I grin broadly over his shoulder at my blogger.

Baiting my brother twice in one day? I have never wanted to kiss anyone so much just for breathing in my entire life.


	15. Mine

**JOHN WATSON**

_Some months later…_

"Where are they John! Damn it, I need them, god I'm so bored…" He nearly upends the couch as I sit calmly in my chair reading the paper, waiting for a coherent thought to flow through the man's mind. He is in the bottomless pit of a 'bored' fugue. We have been a great deal more than friends for several months but really, nothing has changed besides an increased amount of attentiveness on his part and a lack of girlfriends in favor of something much more interesting on mine. "I can't think, it's maddening, I need to think or…" He knocks a box of papers off the table, which slide to the floor in a jumbled avalanche.

"Sherlock…"

"Oh shut up John. Damn this! You must have hid them somewhere, I had two left… DAMN!" He practically flounces into his chair, curls up into a ball and literally vibrates, a mass of irritable nerves.

I sigh. So much for the fantasies of domestic bliss I had several years ago. If I am ever able to calm this man down by suggesting we cuddle on the couch, I will deserve a more than a medal, perhaps a parade and a knighthood.

After about 20 minutes (his average cool down time; yes, I have these timed) he slowly begins to uncurl himself, stretching himself out over the chair. His head is on one arm, his legs are slung over the other, and his positively moronic blue silk dressing gown is falling off his shoulders.

"John, I'm bored." He presses his palms against his face, groaning.

"Well, yes. Believe it or not, I noticed."

"I need a case."

"Probably. Been… what? Two days since the last one."

"John, do something for me."

Spoilt nutter. I roll my eyes. "Tea?"

He groans in a mildly offended manner, and pointedly stretches out a little more on the chair. I lick my lips a little at that; his neck arches nicely, his eyes, god I love when he stares up at me with those mad eyes, when he's like this it's like staring at broken glass…

I sigh. If my sexuality was a code, Sherlock's got it cracked. "Oh come on Sherlock, I was at the hospital all day, and I come home to you destroying the flat. I'm tired and a bit fed up with you, you overgrown child. And besides, we're not teenagers anymore!"

"You're also not gay, yet here you are…" He murmurs smugly. "Plus, you like it better when I'm in a snit. You enjoy "Giving me something to be bored about" and hope to eventually cure my addiction to nicotine by replacing it with "an oral fixation". While you usually allow me to be dominating after a case because I'm on a high and usually overly possessive of you after being out in public with you all day, you like dominating me when I'm acting like a "mad git" because you feel protective of me when I'm in this state and it does tend to relax me. Plus there's no use fighting it too much John, you're already licking your lips and staring at my neck. I'm not sure why you like my neck so much, it's disconcerting, you'd think you were a vampire the way you carry on about it."

I blink at him. "Sherlock, are you attempting to seduce me by deducing the power structure of our relationship?"

"Is it working?"

"Not really, no."

He slumps into a very determined sulk and I eventually get up to put a frozen dinner in the oven.

"Woo hoo!"

There's a knock at the door, and Mrs. Hudson pokes her head in. "I hadn't seen Sherlock in a couple days, and heard he was a little off, so I thought I'd pop round with some biscuits."

The World's Only Consulting Detective grunts inarticulately and waves his hand in Mrs. Hudson's general direction.

"Now Sherlock, that won't do. It must be very nice to be a kept man. Your Doctor here works very hard for you." She pats my arm kindly and I positively beam and raise both my eyebrows in Sherlock's direction. The back of his neck turns very red and he starts mumbling something irately into his chair. I'm trying very hard to keep myself from laughing as I give Mrs. Hudson a hug, thank her for the biscuits, and send her on her way.

I lock the door, and walk casually over to his chair. "You know, she wouldn't say that if you let me set minimum consulting fees for you."

He huffs in frustration. "But then the interesting cases might not come to me. I might be bored all the time and what would I be?"

"You're more than just brains, Sherlock. They're fantastic, they really are, but they don't have to be on display every second of the day for me to love you."

He grimaces, still irritated at the word 'love' (perhaps he always will be), and pulls away from me.

OoOoOoOoOoOo

It's late, or early, 3am when he crawls into bed, and he is still agitated and greasy from being awake too long without a shower. At first I think he's going to initiate something rough and hopefully not too painful just to get some validation that he is still functioning, but instead he tumbles in close to me so his hair is brushing under my chin.

"All I am is brain," he declares.

I'm not fully awake, and I almost miss the existential crisis by mumbling 'okay' and rolling over back into sleep, but I drag in a breath instead and manage to nuzzle into his curls and slur, "dunno bout that, but then 'parently I'm an idiot".

"Only in comparison", he states with only moderate disdain. He hesitates though, and it's the sort of hesitation I can feel in his muscles through both our nightclothes. "John, what am I when I'm not being clever?"

I crack my eyes open, and manage to make out the curve of his shoulders in the dim light of the room and his hands steepled against my chest as he waits for my answer. Sherlock Holmes can see through everything and everyone, but over the past few months it has become painfully obvious that he needs my input when he tries to deduce the simplest things about himself. I suppose I could make an extremely short list of all of his glowing attributes that don't have anything to do with his intellectual prowess (Attractive? Yes, but he's already aware of it. Kind? Occasionally under great duress. Helpful? Doubtful.), but all that I am conscious enough to do at this moment is whisper "mine".

I doze, briefly, then shake myself awake as the possible importance of the conversation seeps into my sleep addled brain. But his breath is finally rhythmic, his eyes are closed, and he's moving his lips against my t-shirt; some of that brilliant mind of his seeping out in his dreams.

I suppose 'mine' is enough.

_End_

(I have a short story "Interrupted Visit" up that is a little fluffy bit from Mycroft's perspective; I am also currently writing "Playing with Fire" which is a fic about these two facing Moriarty while in an established relationship. "Playing with Fire" is going to explore Sherlock's sociopathy and attraction to Moriarty a little more, but it's always Johnlock in the end XD.)


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